


Struck

by DevineMandate



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff, Post-Lethal White
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-09-16 22:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16963029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevineMandate/pseuds/DevineMandate
Summary: Our two favorite people talk their way to each other. Smut ahoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am American and male, more self-conscious about the former than the latter when it comes to this fic. Please let me know if either blind spot has led me to put words in these characters' mouths they would just never say, if I need to clean up a reference, grammar, word choice, etc. Please see the end of this first chapter for more spoiler-y notes.
> 
> Edit 1/16: made a few small fixes after wife read the books and the fic. I think it's done unless anyone points out a problem.

“That’s me gone,” said Robin, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder. “You all right if I leave now?”

“No worries, yeah,” said Strike. He looked at the clock. It was thirty minutes to closing. “Plans tonight?”

“Not really, have a couple of things I can follow up on this evening online, just want to get home, make an early night of it.” _Not see Charlotte wrap herself around you, stake her claim in front of me_ , she did not add.

“All right then. Good night, Robin. Happy Friday.”

“Good night, Cormoran.”

Today, he allowed himself to watch her leave. A pleasant diversion since she was wearing jeans and a rather close-fitting shirt (her waist and hips breathtakingly far apart in width, her arse a heart-shaped pillow), though the low, electric hum of his libido was quickly cut off by guilt. When Strike had fallen back into a romantic relationship with Charlotte, there had been a literal sensation of falling and a not entirely unpleasant anticipation of renewing the pleasure/pain cycle that had been the hallmark of their 16-year entanglement. The rush of euphoria at discovering Jago Ross’s murderer, thereby setting Charlotte free from police custody, had led to some poor choices on both sides, and so he had willingly gone back, ready to be bewitched again.

But things had not proceeded as he expected. Perhaps the long gap between their supposedly final breakup and the current iteration of their relationship had lifted the mental fog long enough for him to consider their current joining unhealthy. Perhaps he had learned something from the mutually agreeable (until they weren’t) relationships with Elin and Lorelei. Perhaps he’d simply grown as a person, though he had severe doubts this was the case when he looked with a critical, detective’s eye at other aspects of his personality over that time period.

Or maybe it was Robin and everything associated with her that made him find his current “relationship” so severely dissatisfying.

Whatever the reason, his current case of Charlotte-pox appeared to have a significantly shorter incubation period than its progenitor, the symptoms of a troubled relationship manifesting after weeks instead of years. He was not falling under her spell, despite both of them assuming he would.

Oh, the sex was pleasant enough. Dizzying, even, when it soared to its greatest heights. And she was truly beautiful, like a movie star from the 1940s had jumped off the screen into shocking color. Looking at her, touching her, clothed or naked, was never tiresome.

Nearly everything else was, however. Her sense of humor, which had seemed wickedly delightful to him most of the time before, now usually seemed merely spiteful. His willingness to indulge her costly flights of fancy…shoes, travel, objets d’art…had not waxed in the intervening years. This despite the fact that the money had been her family’s then and was her dead husband’s now. She was more possessive of his time, if that was possible, now than before. And her ability to perceive and state his thoughts was unnerving now, rather than romantic as it had seemed before: she had mocked him for the “smitten eyes” he apparently gazed upon Robin with, though she still seemed quite assured that he belonged to her, Charlotte. A blind spot in her uncanny perception, maybe.

And then there were the babies.

The twins had died in utero, weeks before they had been due. He had not wished death upon them, and they had been in the Ross cemetery plot months before Jago’s murder, when Charlotte had re-entered Strike’s life with a vengeance. It was not the twins’ existence or their premature exit from that existence that bothered him. When they came up in conversation (which was not frequently, and surely that was unnatural for a would-be mother who had lost her unborn children not six months earlier), there was dismissiveness in her voice, irritation where there should be grief. Strike was not fond of children; babies in particular irked him, but this iciness in the face of such a catastrophic loss…it troubled him. More even than all the problems there had been between them before, her blasé attitude toward her children who had never drawn breath nagged at his thoughts.

So an exit was called for. Soon. Tonight, perhaps.

He heard the door downstairs, interrupting his reverie. “Hi, Bluey!”

 _Or maybe this afternoon_ , thought Strike.

“Hello, Charlotte,” he said as she entered the office proper.

“So I was thinking we’d go to Majorca this weekend, get you rested and a little less pallid. Too many days in the office, too many nights in that Land Rover stalking your prey. All my treat, of course. Sugar mommy’s got you covered. And when will you think about moving back in with me? Surely we’ve both grown up enough over the last few years to…”

He had stopped listening. He’d just been thinking about his lack of personal growth in the last few years; he didn’t think she’d grown any either. Just a convenient, patronizing idea to give him a mental pat on the head and usher him into her lair.

He made a few quick calculations. Robin was gone (and apparently Charlotte had not seen her, since she had not opened the conversation with some bad-natured teasing on the topic of his business partner), and he did not anticipate any new or standing clients coming through his doors today with twenty minutes to end of business. Better to let the bomb explode here where the damage would be minimal.

She was still prattling on and he had no idea about what. It didn’t matter anyway.

“Charlotte, we need to talk.”

**********************************

Robin was angry with herself. She had left her phone at the office and only realized it when she’d gotten to the Tube, so she’d begun striding back, but this was not the primary reason for her anger. Mostly, she was distraught and jealous about Charlotte, a state of mind which she’d been unable to shake since Charlotte and Strike had resumed their relationship. She was angry that she couldn’t let it go.

In the interim between her separation from Matthew some months previous and her divorce becoming final two weeks ago, she had gone half-heartedly on two dates at Vanessa’s insistence that she needed someone to take her mind off Matthew. She had kissed neither of the two men, but during the Ross investigation, Strike had discovered from Vanessa (to Robin’s apparently unending anger) that these two dates had occurred. She had just enough hope and self-respect left to wonder if Strike would have begun seeing Charlotte again if he hadn’t known about those two dates. If she, Robin, had only waited a little longer to date new people, or had only been willing to take a risk and tell Strike…things…but so much was at stake: the most important friendship of her life, the career she’d finally been able to forge ahead on in earnest without Matthew holding her back at home.

So endure she must the mental pictures of Strike and Charlotte hugging, kissing, having unbridled, passionate sex in his flat, at whatever gauzy, shimmering house made of diamonds Charlotte must surely live in now after leaving the Ross manor…Strike’s hairy arms and chest enveloping the tidy, beautiful Charlotte.

“That bitch,” she muttered under her breath as she opened the door to the building on Denmark Street.

“THAT BITCH!” A wall of female invective seemed almost to shatter Robin’s eardrum.

“It’s nothing to do with her!” came the bass rumble of Strike’s voice, less powerful than the feminine shriek of rage ( _How does she manage to sound so husky and sexy still?_ thought Robin) that had preceded it. Robin knew she should quietly close the door and wander away for a while, but she hadn’t been heard, obviously, and she couldn’t quite resist a little more. Of course, their relationship had apparently always been tempestuous, but this seemed promising.

“Don’t you DARE lie to me like that! You can’t kid a kidder, Bluey! I see the way you look at her! You wouldn’t be leaving me if it weren’t for that harlot traipsing around your office.” She put on a simpering, lovesick voice. “‘Oh, if only I could put my hands in your hair. If only I could kiss away the pain, put my head between your tits, and lose myself in your red-rimmed cunt.’” Then her voice went higher-pitched and with a Northern lilt: “‘Oh, please, BUGGER me, Cormoran.’“

Now it was Strike who was bellowing. “THAT’S ENOUGH! I never want to see you again and if you mention her…!”

With a pang of regret at not being able to hear him defend her honor further, Robin quickly and quietly shut the door. It did not entirely muffle the battle, but the particulars of the conversation (if conversation it could be called) were lost.

Anyway, she’d heard enough. As she walked away from the building, shock was giving way to bliss. By the time she’d taken twenty steps down Denmark Street, she was more or less dancing. She did not know for certain that Strike felt anything romantic for her; Charlotte’s words might have just been the nearest weapon in reach. But their affair was over, and hearing Cormoran react that way…

She knew where to go next, and she’d be careful and make sure Charlotte was long gone before she went back for her phone, but there were other reasons to go back now, too.

**********************************

Half an hour after Charlotte had finally left, just as he was beginning to consider the prospect of taking a shower and turning in very early to escape the fallout until morning, he heard the door downstairs open. He dreaded Charlotte coming in again (why hadn’t he locked the door?!), and braced himself.

Seconds later, he was completely disarmed as Robin walked into the office and, without preamble, set four cold bottles of Doom Bar in front of Strike.

“What’s this for?” said Strike, looking at her in confusion.

_I was so hoping you’d say that_ , thought Robin. 

“Celebration. I know you’re not supposed to say it,” said Robin. “But you’re well shot of her.” She beamed at him, wholeheartedly joyful, not trying to temper her enthusiasm in deference to his pain. Her best friend was no longer with a harpy.

Unbidden, from nowhere, she had a sudden wave of understanding crash over her, a gigantic burst of empathy that overwhelmed her consciousness. In her head, she saw Strike feigning friendliness the first time he’d met Matthew during the Quine case, Strike’s undisguised displeasure at the reappearance of her engagement ring during the Laing case. She saw him marching hurriedly away from her first dance with Matthew at the wedding. He had not liked Matthew for her, had never liked Matthew for her, the same way (the exact same way?) she had not liked Charlotte for him. He had maintained silence and politeness for years in the face of it, and she doubted she’d been nearly so stoic for the month or so he had been seeing Charlotte. He had said almost nothing, watching her fail again and again to understand that she was with someone who would only hurt her in the end.

Her smile grew in force, though in the emotional whirlwind, she also felt a prickle behind her eyes.

His smile was of distinctly lower wattage, but he did return it. Then his mouth twisted and he looked into his lap. “You heard, then?”

“Enough to get the gist. Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping. Just forgot my phone.” She gestured to her desk, where the phone lay. “I left pretty fast, but, er, the tone and direction of the conversation were pretty clear. I’m sorry I overheard, and I’m sorry if you feel bad about it, but I suppose it would be silly at this point to pretend I’m sorry in general.”

He nodded, his head still down. “Well,” he said, looking up, “I don’t think you’ll be the only one celebrating. Nick and Ilsa will probably let off some crackers and organize a party when I tell them. Tomorrow, maybe. Don’t really feel like facing anything else today.”

She moved to her desk and grabbed her phone, having heard what she thought was her cue to leave. She was about to turn around and offer a more conciliatory farewell when he said, “Wait.”

She turned around and saw a strange, vulnerable look on his face. It reminded her of the first time she’d seen him drunk at the Tottenham, though he was obviously sober now. “Have a drink with me.”

One corner of her mouth went up. “Are you sure you want company right now?”

“Yeah, yours only, though.” Her heart threatened to reveal itself in the form of tears again. “I’d offer you something else, but I’m afraid there’s just more beer upstairs, and I really don’t want to go to the pub right now. Hopefully you can make do with some of Cornwall’s finest.”

Reckless in her happiness, she said, “Cornwall’s finest is here all right, but it’s not the beer.”

His smile was much more jovial at that. “Cheers, Robin. Yorkshire makes some fine products as well.” He opened one of the beers. “Here, have some, then.”

She couldn’t resist one more reference to the past. “A token swig, maybe.” His smile broadened once again.

**********************************

He had indeed gone back upstairs for more beer. She was nursing her second; he was on number five, tipping into the maudlin confidential stage, but still wary enough to avoid the most dangerous topics.

Or so he thought.

Their conversation had been pleasant. A lot of shop talk, a little Charlotte bashing (mostly his) for seasoning. Now, he was regaling her with jocular army stories when he said:

“Did I ever tell you about losing my leg?”

She stopped drinking mid-sip, opened her eyes, put the bottle down, shook her head.

“No, not in detail, Cormoran.”

“Guess it doesn’t make for lighthearted conversation. Maybe…” His face showed hesitation.

“I want to hear…if you want to tell me.”

He nodded, finished his current beer in a couple of large glugs, opened the sixth.

“Right. It was cold. A lot of people think of Afghanistan as a vast desert, but it’s mostly mountains. Not that I’m leveling judgments upon my current audience’s intelligence.” He paused, took another drink. She did not say anything.

“Anyway, I was sitting in the back of the vehicle, Viking, you know.” He took another drink. “Was on the way to investigate a KIA: killed in action. All of a sudden, I had this feeling...I don't much go in for mysticism, so let's call it an instinct...that something was wrong. I yelled for the driver, Topley, to brake, and grabbed Anstis, whom you remember I'm sure, from the front seat to drag him back. It was a roadside bomb and Topley didn't stop in time.

“Then it was like a movie. I had almost exactly that experience of a white flash of light and a high pitched whining in my ears, and I didn’t know anything for a while, don’t really know how long.” He took another drink.

“I woke up on the ground, cold as ice and getting colder. I tried to get up, and didn’t understand why I wasn’t able to, y’know, get my feet under me. Finally I look down and my leg’s ground beef of course, blood all over me and the ground. Seemed like it was happening to someone else. I didn’t faint at that point, but all of a sudden there's a medic shouting for help near me. McLaggen, his name was...is. Never liked him personally, but that stuff doesn't matter there. He starts putting a tourniquet on me, and now I’m screaming. Hurt like fuck, pain, real pain, I hadn’t felt a thing until then. I’m telling myself not to pass out, to stick with it and hang on and live. I was lucky there was a medic nearby. Guys in the army that lose a limb all have a good luck story. If they didn’t have good luck, they wouldn’t be alive. Other men that day didn't have good luck, Topley for one.

“I passed out not long after that, woke up over Germany pumped full of some opiate or other, almost didn’t know who I was, I was so woozy. And then I spent months in a hospital of one kind or another. Learning to walk again, with the prosthetic eventually, learning how to hold myself up with only one foot to pee and such. Anyway, that’s the story of my leg getting blown off.”

Robin was silent, mulling it over. It was not a particularly long or detailed story, but she felt like a new member of an exclusive club.

Strike walked over to the window, opened it, lit a cigarette. The light outside grew dimmer with each passing minute, going from gold to red (he turned around briefly to look at her glorious hair, he thought a contest between the hair and the sunset might come to a draw) to purple as he smoked. They did not speak for several minutes, but the silence was not awkward. During the moments he was in profile, Robin watched the cherry on Strike’s cigarette burn closer and closer to the filter, still thinking. Strike considered the dimming of the light, considered the question on the tip of his tongue, vacillated between asking and not asking. Finally the alcohol and the growing darkness pushed him to ask. Even if he had turned around, he would not have been able to see her face; there was no electric light on in the office. He stubbed out the cigarette and asked the question, still facing the sunset that was quickly becoming the night.

“Why did you stay with Matthew?”

Robin felt like ice water had been thrown on her. She went from brooding thought to alert consideration in less than a second, the question pumping adrenaline into her system. _Just going right to that, are we?_ There was a split-second of annoyance as she thought of the “quid pro quo” scene in the movie The Silence of the Lambs. _“I gave you my leg; you give me Matthew.”_

But this passed quickly. He is Cormoran Strike, not Hannibal Lecter. She is the one who has wanted this closeness for years, and he has finally opened the door, just in a different way than she expected.

Strike became unsure whether Robin would answer, but she did after a few more seconds, with the unvarnished truth, everything he was hoping for, her eyes far away the entire time.

“We were teenagers when I went out with him the first time. I remember him as very sweet that first year or so. I don’t know if he was destined to become an arrogant prick or if university encouraged his prickdom or if I just didn’t see it at first, probably the latter looking back. Then he felt like he owned me while we were both at university. When we talked, he asked almost exclusively about whether blokes were hitting on me and all that, never about my life, my courses, my friends. I almost split up with him. Then I got raped.” She had not sipped her beer since before the story of Strike’s leg, but she took another drink now. She still did not look at him, but Strike watched her now, his eyes involuntarily widening to grab all the ambient light that they might look upon her face.

“I needed someone to comfort me then, someone I could trust, and Matt was there. I might still be holed up in Masham if he hadn’t helped then. I can’t properly take that away from him even knowing about him and Sarah at the time; for a little bit there, a critical bit, he was my partner and my friend.

“So that’s probably the first time that was the difference between my staying and going. I almost left him again during the Laing case. You probably remember that time, when my engagement ring was gone for a bit.”

Strike nodded, though she did not see it.

“It was horrible, we fought all the time. I thought it must end then, but one day he started to cry, honestly cry, not for show, when he thought we might really be over. And I felt like maybe we were really talking to each other again at that point, like maybe we were really seeing each other and understanding each other. More fool me.

“There was one other time I almost left, right after the wedding. His deleting your calls and messages should have been the killing blow, and I think they would have been if he hadn’t scratched himself on that coral and gotten sick. It felt cruel to leave him then, and then I felt pressure from my family to make the marriage last, and then I was too afraid to end it, even when we basically weren’t speaking to each other for days on end, or fighting miserably when we did speak. Until he fucked Sarah Shadlock…again.” She finished the second beer and slammed it like a punctuation mark on the desk.

“So: rape, weakness, and cowardice, in that order. That’s why I stayed with Matthew.”

Somehow he had gotten close to her without her noticing. He did not take her hand, exactly, but crouched by where she was sitting (she wondered if it hurt his leg) and put his hand on top of hers, bringing her alertness to a new height, sparks flying over the surface of her skin where he touched her. “I know what it’s like to depend on someone. Someone you maybe know deep down isn’t good for you, but you need them because...a very bad thing happens to you...and then you feel like you owe them something. I understand.”

She sighed deeply and turned her hand over to interlace her fingers with his. She felt just how very much bigger his hand was than hers. Large, hairy, strong hands. He could squeeze her fist and break her fingers and wrist without a thought. He wouldn’t, though. She had never had a truer friend.

He marveled at how soft the skin on her hand was, how delicate and long her fingers were. He felt incredibly happy at her revelation, like he was seeing her in the flesh for the first time instead of through a pane of frosted glass.

They contemplated each other for several seconds, close enough now that the darkness was not a barrier.

“Why did you go back to Charlotte?” ( _Quid pro quo, Dr. Lecter._ )

He took his hand back and stood up, making her almost regret the question. But they were clearing the air. The question needed asking.

“I wasn’t really thinking. We were both jubilant at her being exonerated from Jago’s murder; I’m still glad I helped her there, maybe it makes up for her being my crutch after I lost my leg.” He paused briefly, then went on. “Elin and Lorelei both liked me, and I liked them, but that sort of all-consumingness that you want…that I want, anyway…from a romantic relationship, it wasn’t there with them. Charlotte has a way of making you feel like you’re the moon and stars, or maybe more like she’s the moon and stars and you’re the lucky stiff who gets to contemplate them.”

Alcohol and the heady feelings brought on by emotional revelation and hand-holding pushed her into dangerous sappiness yet again. “Maybe one day the sun will come out and you can just forget the moon and stars.”

He looked down at her steadily, for several seemingly eternal seconds. “Maybe” was all he said.

The air was charged now of course, but though both of them felt it, both of them also felt something else: if something was going to happen, this could not be the time nor the venue. He had just broken it off with Charlotte, had slept with her too recently for the transition to be clean; her smell might still be on him. Neither Robin nor Strike was absolutely certain they were on a path to each other now, and both had concerns about a change in their personal relationship affecting their work, but they both felt closer to each other than they’d ever been before. Time was their friend instead of their enemy, finally.

“I have to go, need sleep,” she said. She smiled. “I’m really glad this all happened. Not the part where you hurt, but…everything else.”

“Yeah, me too. I’ll walk you downstairs and get you a cab.”

There was a first for both of them that evening: neither had allowed the other to become the full-fledged object of their lust until that night. She came in her bed, thinking of his hands on her face, her stomach, her shoulders, her breasts, him pushing her legs up and back, her feet almost to her shoulders as he thrusts inside her. He came in his bed thinking of the gorgeous, vivid shock of her pubic hair, her heavy breasts bouncing as she rides him (the exact shape and shade of her breasts, nipples, and areolae tantalizingly close, but not quite seen in his head), her saying “Oh, Cormoran” over and over and over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember if Strike has actually told Robin about losing his leg in detail. I might try to figure out how to fix that if he has. I should really have done a thorough re-read of the series to get more details and have their canon relationship more grounded in my head, but a boy ain't got time for that when he just wants to see these two kiss in a reasonably believable fashion. I know where this is going, but I still have to figure out how to get them there, will likely be either three chapters or four when complete. My prediction for when these two idiots will actually kiss is Book 6 (hopefully 7 tops), hence all the Charlotte business early in this story.


	2. Chapter 2

“All packed?”

“Indeed,” said Robin. “Laptops, client’s photos, long lens camera, some reading material for you on the ride, and most importantly, snacks.”

Strike grunted in affirmation and settled into the passenger side of the Land Rover. “Right, let’s go”.

It had been two weeks since Strike’s split with Charlotte. Neither Robin nor Strike had alluded to that night’s events in conversation, nor attempted to recreate the atmosphere of closeness and openness there’d been between them that night. The daily rituals of life and work had needed attending, and both were afraid that a direct reference might somehow break the magic spell or jinx the possibilities it had brought up.

But they both thought about it, not constantly, but at regular, distracting intervals. Robin would be conducting an interview or tailing a client’s spouse, and suddenly it would be as though she were holding Strike’s hand again, gazing at his face in the dark, wishing the time were right to close the gap between them. Strike would be typing up an invoice or soothing a client on the phone and then hear Robin’s voice saying, “You’re well shot of her...I’m really glad this all happened”.

It was harder to work together than it had ever been (minus the times they’d been truly angry with one another), with the weight of uncertainty and expectation looming in the background. The elephant was most definitely in the room.

And now they were on a day trip together to Pontypool, driving for several hours to do an hour’s worth of work there before heading back the same afternoon.

So the elephant was in the car now, with significantly less room to stretch out between them.

“Ever been to Wales?” said Strike over the constant, loud roar of the vehicle.

“No,” said Robin. “I’m not sure I’m excited to be going there given it’s Geraint Winn’s place of origin.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the memories of his lascivious looks and words, still ashamed of the way she’d broken down in front of Strike after Winn had said those horrid things to her on the phone, though at least they’d been able to really talk afterwards.

“I’ll grant you that’s not in its favor. Pretty, though. Green, nice lakes.”

Despite the elephant’s presence, constantly felt but also constantly ignored, they proceeded in light but companionable chitchat, Robin weaving through traffic, Strike occasionally catching up on office mail on his phone.

Though they stopped only once for a bathroom break and a smoke for Strike, the trip into Wales took longer than expected due to unexpected blockages, closed roads, detours. Their business in Pontypool also took about three times longer than they’d thought, so that by the time they were headed back, it was much later in the afternoon than anticipated. To top it off, all the snacks had been consumed, making Strike grumpier than the circumstances warranted.

“We’ll be lucky to make London by nightfall at this rate,” said Strike.

Robin gritted her teeth, irritated at the world.

Then it happened. Still hours from London, the Land Rover began to shudder and cough violently.

“Oh shit!” Robin tried cautiously to continue driving, but the car would not cooperate. “Oh no, oh no, oh...BUGGER!”

“Maybe it’s something simple like the radiator. Come on, pull over.”

She did and turned on the hazard lights, feeling strongly that she had driven this car for the last time, but still holding out hope.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Robin. Let’s take a look here.”

After a minute’s fiddling under the bonnet, Strike went to the rear of the vehicle and grabbed an oil pan. He carefully laid on his back and scooted cautiously under, placed the pan appropriately and let the oil drain. It was milky brown.

He got out from under the vehicle and went back to Robin. “Blown head gasket, coolant’s gone in with the oil. I’m sorry, Robin, the expense would be exorbitant to fix it. Given the age of the vehicle, better to get another used one if we don’t go in for a monthly payment on a new one.”

Robin was much more depressed at this information than she had expected, even though she had anticipated it from the moment she’d heard the sounds the car had made in its death throes. She’d had this car a long time, and her family before that. It was strongly tied to the business and to Strike in her mind. She and Strike had spent a lot of time in it together, at close quarters.

They had gone to Barrow in this Land Rover.

Robin sighed. “All right. What do we do now?”

**********************************

They had attended to the need to get the car towed off the narrow road. By the time this was sorted, there was no question of getting back to London that night. They were hours away and it was late, the sun had been down for some time: no trains, buses, or cars to be had that suited their purpose.

Robin had used her phone to find the nearest hotel and figure out the most reasonable options for transport to that hotel and to London the next morning. With all transport arranged, they each got a room, dropped off their belongings in their respective rooms, and then came back to the hotel front office with a plan to eat at a nondescript roadside cafe across the street that was still open for another hour before turning in.

As they met up, the elephant loomed again. They were at a hotel. Alone. Many miles from London. In the dark.

Strike said, “I’m starving. You?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

They crossed the unlit street, no traffic visible for miles in either direction, and went into the cafe.

They bought bacon sandwiches and a drink from the bored proprietor, who had gone back to reading his book the moment everything was sorted. They were the only customers there.

They ate most of their food in silence.

“It’s a real shame about the Land Rover,” said Strike, through the last bite of his sandwich.

“Yes, I’m actually rather sorry to see it go. It meant a lot to me. Home. The business. Us.”

“Yeah,” said Strike, a reel of memories with her in the car whirling through his head. “Us. So many good times.” He smiled at her with fondness and affection.

She looked at him, at the way he was looking at her, and suddenly, it felt like the weight of months of waiting and wondering came down on her all at once. She was tired of it. She was tired of pretending, of living perpetually in limbo. Enough time had passed, Charlotte wasn’t coming back. _I should say something, I should tell him._ Should she? What about her fear of forcing it to happen, of jinxing the thing by mentioning it? But suddenly this seemed ridiculous. Would they wait forever for a magic moment? Weren’t they good enough friends to sort this out?

Shouldn’t they just...talk about it?

“Cormoran…”

“Yes?”

She hesitated, thinking that she could still say nothing now, that she could turn back. Then she crossed the Rubicon.

“I, er, I fancy you.”

“What?” Strike seemed to color and pale at the same time.

“I fancy you. I like you. Romantically.” There. It was done. She couldn’t walk away. She went from an odd calm that had come over her in the moment itself to finding herself trembling with anticipation, wondering what he would say.

Strike was dumbstruck, blindsided. They had hardly said anything to one another in the last few minutes. Where had this come from? “Do you really?” he said stupidly.

She yelled, as if he had dared to disagree with her, “Yeah, I do!” She colored, more in defiance than embarrassment.

As reality settled in on Strike, he found that with the taboo broken, the elephant named, he didn’t see any point in dissembling or making Robin feel unnecessarily awkward. “Oh. Huh. I fancy you too.”

She had thought it was probably so, and yet she still found herself loudly disbelieving at the bald words. “You do?!”

“Yeah, I do.”

They jumped at the sound of the forgotten proprietor coughing, an amused look on his face.

“I’m just going to go in back and sort some things out. Why don’t you both have a chat, and give me a shout if you want anything or if anyone else comes in, all right?”

They looked at each other, shamefaced. Robin said to the man, “Right. Thanks.” He left them to it.

There was a jumble of silent emotional upheaval. They considered the things that would have to be said. Their relationship was suddenly at a crossroads, on the edge of a knife, and neither was sure what would happen in the next few minutes. Their future was about to be decided at a dingy, narrow table with discarded and forgotten remains of bacon sandwiches littering its top.

Finally Strike spoke.

“All right. Okay. We fancy each other. Now what?”

Robin gave him a dry, flat-mouthed look and a raised eyebrow. “I think there are certain accepted activities that tend to come after two people recognize that fact about each other.”

“And those activities sound fantastic, really, they do. I’ve thought about them more and for longer than might make you comfortable, since it seems it’s honesty hour. But Robin, we’re business partners. How is that going to work?”

“Wait, we’ll get to that, but I want to go back to another point there, since it’s honesty hour and all. How long HAVE you been thinking about...those activities?”

He glowered at her. “I’ve been aware you were pretty since day one, Robin. I’m not blind.”

“That’s how I’ve always imagined you telling me I’m attractive. Write it down. ‘“I’m not blind” said Cormoran Strike. Robin swooned and fell into his arms.’ Anyway, let me rephrase: how long have you fancied me?”

Strike sighed. “Have you ever read Pride and Prejudice?”

“Yes.”

“D’you remember that bit near the end where Mr. Darcy tells Elizabeth something along the lines of ‘It’s been coming on so gradually, I was in the middle before I knew I’d begun’?”

“Oh, Cormoran! That’s actually very sweet, thank you!”

“You’re welcome. God, I can’t believe this is how this is happening. I thought for certain more alcohol would be involved. Anyway, I’ve been willing to admit to myself that I...wish I could get to know you better...since...I don’t know, probably some time during the Laing case. Maybe the trip to Barrow, maybe a little after that.”

“Oh no! That long?”

“Robin, anyone attracted to women who knew you for more than a few days would have warm feelings for you. Anyone who knew you a few months would fancy you. You're an extraordinary person.” Robin blushed. “That’s my professional opinion, by the way, as well as my personal one. One more thing, while I’m making a clean breast of it: when I saw you dancing with Matthew at the wedding, I knew I'd hoped for a long time that it wouldn't happen, you getting married. I could have hurled chairs across the room. At his smug, good-looking face preferably. Wanker.” This admission of jealousy, and the indirect comparison of his looks with Matthew's, softened Robin, increased the feeling of admiration she'd had two weeks ago at his long held back disgust and sadness at her being and staying with Matthew. And he'd wanted her so much of that time as well. Poor Cormoran.

He went on. “Now since I’ve been so very forthcoming, how about you go ahead and tell me how long you’ve been interested?”

“It’s funny you mention the trip to Barrow. Do you remember that Travelodge where we stayed five rooms apart?” Strike nodded. “Well...I was angry with Matthew at the time, finding out he slept with Sarah at uni and all that. And I...I kind of imagined you knocking on my door on some thin pretext…”

“Bloody hell!”

“I’m not saying you would have or I would have or that I wanted to...get to know you better...at that point, but you were on my mind. Around the same time, somehow without being able to account for it, I was jealous of Elin. I thought of you…together…and was aggravated without understanding why.”

She hesitated to bring up the next bit, but decided his forthright answers deserved to be reciprocated.

“After the wedding, when we hugged on that staircase...well, I had profound feelings. Thought I might be falling for you. But when I was on the honeymoon, I called you, and a woman answered, and I was sure you couldn't want me if you'd got off with some random woman so soon after what I'd thought was such a powerful connection.”

Strike recoiled in shock. “That was you? Shit. The world has really conspired to keep us apart, hasn't it? If I'd known how much that was going to cost me...well. I'll defend myself by saying I thought you'd decided to stay married and I wanted desperately to be distracted. And it seemed afterward you HAD decided to stay married...you did stay married after all. Plus which, I don't mean to insult you when I say maybe you don't understand how little sex and emotion can sometimes be connected in the male mind. It was just sex, Robin. Not that I or men in general are walking dicks with no brains or hearts. It's just sometimes our hearts and our dicks aren't on speaking terms. You know me well enough, have seen me in relationships enough, to know sex and romance are usually related for me, so I guess it makes sense you were upset. But not that time.”

He was silent for a moment and then said, “That hug meant a lot to me...MEANS a lot to me too, Robin. Maybe someday I'll tell you how much. It was a Hug with a capital H for me.”

Again, she felt herself melt a little. “Thanks, Cormoran. That helps.”

“You're welcome.”

Silence fell over them again. They were lost in thought.

She smiled suddenly. “Tell me how I’m pretty. Please?”

“Ugh, come on. Your hair is...very nice.”

“Oh, it’s no wonder you’re such a hit with women, your lines are amazing.”

“You want poetry? Fine.” His non-artificial foot fidgeted, bounced up and down a few times under the table before he went ahead. He thought carefully about being truthful and articulate without being too florid. “This is God's honest truth: sometimes when I look at your eyes, grey and blue together, it reminds me of a cloudy day on a Cornwall beach, makes me feel like I'm at home and safe.”

Her heart soared. “That’s the sweetest thing a man’s ever said to me!”

“I’m not surprised, Robin. Your standards can’t be very high. Look, before we keep going on like this, and don’t get me wrong, I’d love to hear in some detail what you think of me, I need to go back to a pretty fucking important question. How is this going to work with our professional lives? It just seems like it will be too messy.”

“You don’t think we’re capable of separating our personal and professional lives? Christ, Cormoran, if there were a merit badge for walling off those two aspects of your life, you’d have won it years ago.”

“Hilarious. But this is a pretty significant new variable, you must admit.”

“Sure, but it’s not like our personal lives haven’t already crossed over all the time, particularly as time has gone on. And anyway, I think I have a pretty good counter-argument. Let’s suppose we decide not to do this. What happens then? Are you just going to say nothing and watch me go out with other men? Go back to the way you felt while I was with Matthew? Maybe if we had maintained silence on this forever, that would have been feasible, but now that this is in the open? And am I going to have to watch you date other women again, think about you kissing them, sleeping with them? I couldn’t bear it, my heart would break. It was in the process of breaking when you were with Charlotte; I probably would have left eventually.”

“So you’re saying either this will work and we’ll keep working together or it won’t and we won’t?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it will be one of those or maybe we’ll split up more amicably and be able to go on working together. What I’m saying is we can’t possibly go on working together now without trying. I can’t, anyway.”

“In other words, you’ll leave the business if I don’t date you? That’s some pretty hefty emotional blackmail, Robin. And I dated Charlotte Campbell Ross for sixteen years.”

She was stung. “Cormoran, that’s not fair, you know how much I care about our work, but I was unhappy in love for so many years. I’m not going to do that to myself any further, my heart is too sore from years of mistreatment. I guess I could try to continue working with you, but I’m almost certain I’m right. I’m nearing thirty, I can’t waste time.”

“Thirty? Practically a dried up old hag. I’m edging up on forty, you know.”

“I do know that, Cormoran, and I hope you don’t want to waste your life either. I was unhappy for ten years in love, you for...sixteen, was it? Please, can’t we both try being happy instead?”

He was quiet now--she had pretty thoroughly circled him in his opinion. And he wanted her desperately. He envisioned quiet evenings on the couch, in bed, watching the telly, her making him a favorite meal when Arsenal lost again, perhaps celebrating with him decades from now when they finally won it all. They could chat at the office as long as they wanted, go down to the pub, laugh some more, take the Tube home together...and the sex would be incredible, heart-stopping. They were such good friends already.

“Okay. All right. You’re right. Let’s try.”

She gasped, pressed her hands to her heart. “Really?”

“Really. I want to. So much.”

Robin gasped and shuddered and sobbed once before she could stop herself, wiping her eyes frantically. “I never thought...I was sure it couldn’t...I was sure you wouldn’t...oh God, I can’t believe it!” Overwhelmed, she sobbed once more and lowered her head into her arms.

“I was sure it couldn’t, either. This is right, though. This is right. Thank you for convincing me. I’m sorry I compared you to Charlotte.”

She raised her head and smiled, her eyes shining.

He said, “Tell me something you like about me.”

Her reply was instantaneous. “Oh I love how people look at you and think you’re so mean and gruff, and I know you’re not. How they look at your war-battered face and your muscles and your height and think what a brainless bastard you must be, and I know you quote Latin and Austen and Shakespeare and have the softest heart. I love it. It’s like having a secret from the world.”

He’d known she’d do a good job of this, but he had not expected to be so moved. “That’s pretty good, Robin, I have to tell you.”

“I love the idea that if a man tried to do anything to me again, you’d break him in half like a pencil. You make me feel so safe, Cormoran.”

Robin stared pointedly at Strike’s mouth. He stared at her lower lip, thinking that he’d never properly seen how full it was, how pillowy.

“Robin...”

“Cormoran…”

In their eagerness to reach each other’s mouths across the table, their teeth knocked together and they each recoiled in pain. But the moment was not ruined, their emotions were running too high. They looked at each other and laughed, then went silent again. They leaned together more slowly, and their mouths touched once more.

Thunder clapped in Robin’s head. It was as if a shining, painless spark of pure energy had shot from his mouth to hers and multiplied, bolts of lightning shooting through her nerves and veins, head to toe. Her stomach and heart must be visibly glowing, radioactive with the energy he was sending into her. Her eyes would shoot beams of sunlight out if she opened them. Arcs of red electricity were surely racing along her scalp, every inch of her skin, raising every hair on her body on end. 

For Strike, it was a renewal of the feeling he’d had holding her on the staircase outside her wedding reception, like he was kissing her for the first time and paradoxically had kissed her many, many times in the distant past, like he had been made to kiss her. This time, though, there was no aching regret, no terrible sadness, but dazzling light, happiness beyond happiness, as though he’d thrown open a magical door that led from a dingy, smelly London side street to a green meadow filled with Yorkshire roses.

They broke apart to look at each other, to gauge the effect they’d had upon one another, and each was gratified to see wonder and tenderness mirrored in the other.

“Wow,” she said.

“Wow,” he agreed.

They had not opened their mouths and yet it had been the most passionate kiss either had given or received.

“Lord have mercy,” said Robin. Strike took her hand off the table and gently stroked the top of it. She watched him raise her hand up, turn it over, and warmly kiss the underside of her wrist, sending an aftershock of electricity through her. He returned her hand to its original position and stroked it again. She looked down at his hand on hers, and covered it suddenly with her other hand, as though afraid it would try to escape.

She looked back up at him, and they stood up to leave.

As soon as they got a reasonable distance from the door, they reached for each other again. He leaned down slightly and she looked up. His arms encircled her waist, hers his shoulders and they pressed against one another. He could feel the individual press of each of her breasts against his firm chest. She could feel his erection, urgently prodding her belly, growing as their kiss went on. This time, Strike opened his mouth slowly, a gentle invitation, and Robin tentatively passed her tongue across the threshold of his lips, then entered his mouth with purpose and relish and explored his tongue with her own. Strike moaned softly into her mouth. He moved into her mouth, dragging the underside of his tongue over the top of hers, skating along the bottoms of her top row of teeth before he languidly sucked on her tongue, eliciting a small gasp of enjoyment from her.

They pulled back, dizzy. Strike asked the only question that was left.

“Will you spend the night with me? If you want to...”

A small part of her wanted to maintain dignity and pretend to consider the question. A similarly small part of her legitimately doubted whether it was a good idea.

These parts were quickly overruled and she simply nodded her head vigorously, smiling.

He grinned. “Great!” She was grateful for how, between the grin and the exclamation, he was somehow able to demonstrate enthusiasm and anticipation without outright lecherousness.

She laughed suddenly. “We might have saved on expenses for the business and gotten only one room if we’d known.”

He laughed in turn, then furrowed his brow in concentration for a moment. “I’ll adjust the budget spreadsheets when we’re back in London to account for that going forward.”

She smiled broadly, both amused at his turn of thought, and happy to hear how permanent he considered the arrangement.

They crossed the street to the hotel and split up with the plan that she would join him in his room momentarily. They were both grinning gormlessly as Robin left him with a temporary farewell. “See you in a bit!” _All of you_ , she thought with equal parts happiness and lust.

She went back to her room and got her things and some of the hotel’s toiletries, and brought them to the door of his room.

She knocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing the big conversation in this piece, and think it turned out well, though I'm not sure how well the whole chapter hangs together, definitely not so well as chapter 1 IMO. Ah well, the next and last chapter will still be a lot of fun!


	3. Chapter 3

He opened the door instantly, not playing it cool, not pretending that he had been doing anything but waiting for her to come back. It was another of the things she loved about him most, his complete lack of nicety or pretense, except when he was trying to spare someone’s feelings. She’d tell him that at some point soon.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she said back.

The air thrummed.

“I’ll just go to the bathroom and brush my teeth,” said Robin.

“Right, me too. After you.”

It was oddly personal and domestic to be so near each other this way, though they each used the bathroom separately. The sounds of the toilet flushing, the sounds of brushing teeth, water running down the sink’s drain.

Alone as she waited for him to finish, she wished she had some sort of delightful sleepwear (sexwear?), a negligee, a silk robe, something to add to the fun, make her look and feel a bit more feminine. She trusted, however, that she herself was enough this first night. If their kiss was anything to go by, she herself would be just fine. And anyway, having more clothes to remove was not necessarily a bad thing, it might only increase the anticipation. She decided the next time this happened, she would wear the green dress, which she’d have repaired first thing when she got back to London, no matter the cost.

He came out of the bathroom, and then, for a minute, neither seemed quite sure what to do next. They both sat on the bed, but did not touch each other, neither anxious to push the other into action.

“I’ll get undressed, shall I?” she said, too brightly, not authentically excited.

“That would be wonderful,” he said, letting her take the lead.

She reached for the bedside lamp.

“Don’t turn the light off, please? I...I want to see you. At first, anyway.”

She was even more nervous at this, wanted a veil of darkness to hide what she considered her flaws, but she trusted him, wanted to please him.

“All right.”

She stood up and moved to undress herself. She felt prickled by a thousand small bodily insecurities ( _what if he doesn’t like the freckles on my back? what if he expects me to be shaved everywhere?_ ), but the overwhelming feeling was one of intense realization that this was really about to happen, that years of tension were going to be snapped. She suddenly felt detached from reality. _I’m about to have sex with Cormoran, how is that possible?_ She could not concentrate on the task at hand. She fumbled at the top button on her jeans once, twice, three times.

He saw her tension, her shaking and fumbling, felt the wrongness of the situation. “No, wait.” She looked up.

“You’re sure this is what you want?” She nodded; that was definitely true, no matter how nervous she was. “I’ll go first, then,” he said.

Not slowly but deliberately, he undid the buttons of his shirt. He was not usually self-conscious about his body with women he slept with. He has found that women are not attracted to him for his body, not really anyway, though they love that he is large and strong.

But he still desperately wished his abdominal muscles were anywhere near visible. This was Robin, after all, and her standard was Matthew, that athletic pretty boy. Having fully unbuttoned and untucked the shirt, he extended both arms behind him and quickly yanked each of the sleeves off with the opposite hand. He is a fairly solid wall of muscle, but his stomach wobbles unmistakably when fully unsheathed, though at least his hairiness is in his favor here, giving him a kind of suit beneath his clothes.

Robin let her eyes drift over him, taking in his thick biceps and forearms that have bashed men’s faces, traumatized skulls, broken the bones of desperate criminals. _All that power_ , her brain purred, _and he’s going to restrain it to touch me_. She shivered. His chest was broader, more visibly Superman-like than she’d expected beneath the pelt on his chest, above the charmingly human paunch of his belly.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his footwear, then removed his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, his stomach expanding just a little further. He pushed the trousers off, lying down on the edge of the bed to remove them more easily. His legs were as hairy and muscular as the rest of him (as far as they went), the matted hair on the left leg coming to an abrupt end near toes and heel (though his toes have a separate patch of hair on each), the hair on his right leg stopping suddenly in its own way, singed off forever for a short stretch above the stump, which was still buckled into the prosthetic.

When he removed his prosthesis in front of her, she felt it was more revealing and personal than if he had removed his boxer briefs. After he was done and had set the false portion of his leg gently aside and sat down, he looked directly at her, more agitated and fearful of her judgment than he’d been with any woman who had seen him like this. Her heart melted (for what must have been the hundredth time that night) when she saw how vulnerable his eyes and body language were. She felt a momentary shame that she should worry about the freckles on her back when so much of his right leg was simply not there. And yet though his worry was palpable, he had made himself the nearly naked one so that she might be more at ease.

She sat down next to him, running her hands over his shoulders, gently feeling the iron muscles of his arms and back, pausing for a moment at the Laing scar. She compared her scar to his side by side and he looked over his shoulder, catching her at it. Then they kissed at length, slow, chaste, close-mouthed kisses, his stubble scratching her pleasantly as she breathed in his somehow spicy, masculine scent. He gently moved her to lay on her back, and they continued kissing, their tongues now snaking out, deftly and slowly exploring.

Not tentatively, but gently, his right hand came up to her still fully covered left breast.

She giggled involuntarily. He pulled back, surliness now actively on his face, not just his habitual expression, the male equivalent of “resting bitch face”.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, this is all so lovely. I’m just nervous. And I was thinking about how you touched my breast once, years ago. The first time wasn’t so gentle, do you remember?”

The confusion on his face was quickly replaced by comprehension.

“How could I forget? The Not So Temporary Solution.”

They were both grinning now; there was no awkwardness left.

“I won’t yank you by it this time, promise. Did I bruise you then?”

“You did, but it’s all right. A bruised breast was infinitely preferable to falling off that staircase, though I don’t think I was properly grateful at the time.”

She started kissing him again, and decisively tugged his arm and hand back to their previous position. His grip on her breast grew more firm, but he was not squeezing or mauling, but gently weighing, then caressing. As they kissed, he spread his palm flat over as much of her breast as he could (his hand was large, but even his hand was not quite big enough to hold the entirety of one of Robin’s breasts, and this thrilled him--he had slept with only one other woman with breasts so large and that was early on at Oxford) and then drew his fingers together so that they were stroking where her nipple must approximately be. The first time, he couldn’t be quite sure whether he stroked the appropriate place at the tip, but he repeated the motion and this time felt the stiffening even under the fabric of her shirt and bra, and heard her contented sigh coming from under his mouth.

Soon, she sat up.

“I think I can take off my clothes now without looking like a prat. Or would you like to do the honors?”

“I’d love to. It would truly be my pleasure.”

“Our pleasure, Cormoran.” And she batted her eyelashes and gave him a heavy-lidded look of sultry promise, so that he was both manned and unmanned at the same time.

“Stand up,” he heard himself saying, “and take off your shoes.”

She did so, kicking her flats off and scooting them under the bed, and then he reached for the buttons on her jeans, undoing them expertly with one hand, and slid the jeans down her legs. His index fingers went inside the waistband as he did so, stroking the sides of her long legs as he pulled her jeans down, and she shivered pleasurably and stepped carefully out of her jeans, which he tossed across the room. Her creamy thighs appeared to be made entirely of gooseflesh and she had a slight growth of hair, probably a week or two’s worth of not shaving, but he had never minded a woman's legs having their natural fuzz at any length. Anyway, her legs could have been as hairy as his and he would still have been a puddle of a man at her half-nakedness. Robin bit her lower lip in nervousness, unable to read his thoughts.

He ran the fronts and backs of his hands up and down her thighs a couple of times, not shying away from the hair there, then let a single finger dance and slide along the edges of her white cotton knickers, not touching the central mound underneath yet, but grazing it through the fabric. Robin still had her lower lip between her teeth, but no longer in nervousness, now concentrating on the feeling of his hands and fingers on her.

“Shirt next,” he said, and there was no doubt of the glee in his voice, like he was a 7-year-old boy about to unwrap one of the biggest presents under the Christmas tree.

She smiled, lifted her arms in mock surrender, and somewhat nonsensically said, “Throw down your weapon and come out with your hands up.”

His grin grew along with another part of him, and he raked the shirt over her head, carefully pulling the neck hole apart to make sure it did not catch on her ears or hair, and tossed it in the general direction of the jeans.

She was wearing a plain white cotton bra (to match her knickers, and indeed it is hard and expensive to find a bra that is not purely practical at Robin’s size), but it was smartly filled, and given the circumstances, it might as well have been the laciest, silkiest, frilliest bra in existence...one of those silly, impractical diamond-studded bras the Victoria’s Secret models wear on the catwalks, with even more valuable treasures inside. There was a small, golden trail of hair below her navel, going down and hiding behind her underwear, a trail of gold dust leading to the promised land. Strike looked at her and thought she must be the most beautiful hourglass on earth--this one filled not with sand, but heart, brain, bone, blood, guts--her waist an impossibility next to the swell of her breasts and hips. The words “curvy” or “curvaceous” have always bothered him when used to describe a sexy girl in books. Such a decorous, sanitized word to describe the elements of womanhood that cause a heterosexual man’s engine to roar into unthinking, desperate need. Nevertheless, she was curvy, and though he would rather think about her in terms of tits, arse, and cunt than “curvaceousness”, he was still staggered by just how much she dipped in and out at the middle.

She surprised him by suddenly reaching behind her. In one smooth motion, she undid the four bands of hooks that held her dignity in place (per so-called developed countries’ standards of decorum) and shrugged the bra off in front of her to fall forgotten at her feet. She steadfastly kept her arms at her side, determined not to block the view, nervous because it was Cormoran, but smiling knowingly because she was legitimately confident of her attractiveness in this area.

“Great God Almighty,” he said, and his words were so obviously genuine and unplanned, his eyes so wide, that she was moved by his staring.

Her breasts were gorgeous, the most beautiful he had ever seen in life, in a magazine, or on the internet, almost incredibly symmetrical. They were not round as is so rarely found in nature, nor were they precisely tear drop shaped as is much more common, but like bells, fairly thin at the top and very full on the bottom, flaring out as they went, her nipples facing front and surprisingly high up on the breast for a woman so large. Her areolae were about the size one would expect, the midpoint between a bottle cap and the rim of a drinking glass (though not a true circle, of course, more an oval or ellipsis), a shocking pink against her creamy skin, not featureless beyond the nipple like a pancake topped with a raspberry, but with discernible glands and follicles whose position a lover would soon memorize.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but are you ever going to touch me? It’s not that I exactly mind the way you’re looking at me or anything.”

“Yes...yes, I’ll touch you, Robin. Could you lie on your stomach?”

She complied, her breasts spreading underneath her so that he could just see the sides of them peeking out next to her ribcage. He began by running his finger tips unpredictably over her back, grazing her so that she was not quite tickled but felt a pleasurable fuzziness shooting up her skin and into her head at his skimming and stroking. He then started kissing her back, her shoulders, the bottom of her neck, again in a randomized way so that she did not know where he would kiss next. He made a game of kissing each of the beautiful freckles spread over a large portion of her upper back and shoulder blades, and she began to whimper at the need for him to do more.

He slid his hands to her hips and made as if to tug off the flimsy thing dividing him from his ultimate goal. Before he could ask, she raised her hips and knees in assent, and he pulled her knickers most of the way down in a single, decisive yank such that she hardly felt the fabric go past her thighs, knees, and calves. One small lift of her feet and the underwear were gone. 

He stroked her silky behind, yet another sight to behold on her body which was apparently composed entirely of wonders, grabbed it firmly on both sides, enjoying the contrast of firmness and smoothness, then rolled her on to her back.

Finally he saw her, fully uncloaked, his to have and to hold. She looked up at him and there were stars in her eyes. She was like a painting, creamy flesh dotted with brilliant bursts of color: hair, eyes, eyebrows, mouth, nipples, finger and toe nails. Trumping them all in his eye now was her pubic hair, which was as vivid and dazzling as he had imagined, moreso even, and he lightly ran his hand over the hair that surrounded her opening, making her shudder and close her eyes in anticipation.

But first he lowered his mouth to her breasts, which were spilling off the sides of her chest and onto the bed. He started by gently scooping her left breast further up onto her chest, leaning over her and kissing the nipple; this was the one he had mauled years ago, and he was determined to make it up to her. He progressed from dropping light kisses all around the pink flesh standing so starkly apart from the white, to gently licking and sucking, then more fervently doing so, allowing saliva to pool and lather around the entirety of the pink not-quite-circle before he sucked it all into his mouth again. Her areola mottled and bunched, her nipple stuck out further, begging him to keep it in his mouth. His mind was drenched in lust; doing this, pleasuring a woman, for him, was almost as good as getting soundly fucked.

She had never had foreplay last this long, and felt like she had done no work to earn all of the incredible feelings he was giving her. He had done so much, and she was just lying there, taking and taking and taking the various gifts he was giving her.

“Oh my God, Cormoran, thank you.” She felt him pause in his exploration, though he did not look up. “This all feels incredible. So much...attention!” She could feel his grin against the flesh of her breast before he went back to the task at hand and her eyes fluttered shut and rolled behind her eyelids again, her mouth draped open, an almost-smile of lust on her lips, her tongue flicking out to lick her lips at each unexpected surge of pleasure shooting from her taut nipple to her quivering center.

He moved to the other nipple, treating it the same way, then raised a hand to the breast his mouth had left behind, where a sheen of saliva still lay, and began stroking there, his mouth still on the right breast. His hand and mouth switched places a couple of times before he had a burst of inspiration as he realized the size of her breasts made something possible that he had never done before, and then she was taken utterly by surprise when he pressed both breasts together atop her chest and managed to get both her nipples in his mouth at once, pressed together. She could not believe the sensation. It was as though there were two mouths on her, licking and sucking, frantic and needful, making her feel like she was outside her own body with pleasure, but it was only Strike, demonstrating prowess beyond her experience.

He felt her hips start to buck, her body demanding that he finish what he had started.

Just before she could reach down and begin stroking herself, he moved his head down between her legs, and began licking her clit. She stiffened at the unexpected, overwhelming sensations, now drunk with desire, high on desire. She would have clamored to let her make him feel good the way he was making her feel good if only she had had the power of speech. But words were gone, banished by the expert flick and swirl of Strike’s tongue.

He moved from gentle licks and presses to more urgent, rapid movement, circling her clit, then pressing down on it with the top of his tongue, occasionally slowing down only to speed up again, alternately softening and stiffening his tongue, and just when she thought the sensations could grow no more intense, he raised up his hands and gently pinched each of her nipples, rolling them and then pulling them as far up and away from the rest of her as he could without causing pain, his tongue still working, working, working. Again, she thought she could fly no higher. But she felt one hand leave her breast and then Strike’s finger went inside her, driving into her even as his tongue still drove at her and his other hand still tweaked and stroked. A second finger penetrated her and she thought she would die of delight as he shot his fingers back and forth, reaching up, in, and back toward her belly to drag along the bumpy, sensitive flesh at the top of her canal, and still he swirled his tongue, and switched his free hand to the other nipple, dragging his palm smoothly along the top and then grabbing the whole thing, his hand still driving inside her, his tongue flicking and flicking and licking and licking and suddenly she was shattered. She cried out, at first thrashing thoughtlessly, wordlessly, but then shouting his name and his name and his name and his name.

Her loud, joyful, unbelieving exhalations of pleasure transitioned into grateful, trembling sobs as he rode out her orgasm with her, his tongue’s licking and his fingers’ penetration and squeezing going from fierce and fast to gentle and slow as she crested, then descended. She relaxed into the bed, still weeping, and he pulled his tongue and hands away at just the right moment, when it would have started to be too much.

“Robin, are you...crying?” She looked down and saw real concern on his face.

“Yes, but it’s all right, it’s wonderful,” she said, furiously wiping away tears that he was apparently not taking for the compliment they were.

He looked at her, questioning.

Somehow, despite having climaxed less than 60 seconds previously and being in tears, she managed to blush, the red creeping prettily down her collarbone to the tops of her breasts. “Cormoran, you may not be aware that I have slept with only one other man. You may also be forgetting the only other man I have slept with was not the world’s greatest human being, and I have only just been made aware of how far he was from the world’s greatest lover. I just...I’ve never felt that kind of...consideration, attention from a man, and I probably don’t mean just in bed. It was like I was a musical instrument and you were a virtuoso playing me.”

Pride surged through him, thundering pride like a heartbeat he could feel throughout his entire body. He had just given this goddess pleasure such as she had never received before. Oh, but he was so giddy. He had made Robin feel this way.

“I’m so glad you feel that way, Robin. I’m just getting started, and I definitely don’t mean just in bed.”

“More soon, definitely. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait to show off again for a few minutes. I promise I’ll be appreciative again when the time comes, but I insist on returning the favor.”

She sat up, and with surprising grace, strength, and speed, had him on his back within seconds.

He self-consciously wiped his mouth with his forearms. Most women did not like the smell or taste of themselves, he had found, but Robin was moving his hands out of the way, holding his wrists down by his shoulders, plundering his mouth without seeming to care about what might still be lingering on, in, or around it. Her tongue raked his teeth along the top gumline at the back, then swirled around his tongue for a few seconds before gently, then more urgently sucking on it. Strike convulsed with pleasure, his head pushing back into the pillow in his pleasurable thrashing.

She broke off and kissed around the outer portions of his ear, sending shockwaves down his spine to his groin. He moaned as she trailed soft kisses below his ear, down his jawline and onto his neck.

She laid her cheek on the center of his chest for a few seconds, raked her fingers though the broad expanse of hair there, gently scratching the skin below, turned onto her other cheek and raked her fingers some more, apparently just appreciating the texture of his masculinity. She reached under him on both sides and felt each side of his hairy, muscular arse, growling slightly, appreciatively at the feel of him. 

Then she did something he did not expect: she sat up and looked at both of his pecs in turn. Her hands skimmed each side of his chest, palms down, until they found the small, hidden pink nub on each side. Her left hand spread as much of the hair away from his right nipple as it could, and then she lowered her mouth onto his chest, her tongue gently protruding and grazing the peak of his nipple.

Strike felt almost as though she had licked the tip of his cock and spasmed under her again, harder than ever.

She looked up. “Okay?”

“Oh...yeah...more than okay. I don’t think…” he said, and to his dismay, he could feel himself blushing, in her position for once. “I don’t think anyone has ever done that for me before. Maybe because of all the...you know...hair. I wasn’t expecting it to feel as good as that, is all.” He turned away, surprised at how shy he felt about this.

She smiled, pleased both at giving him something new, and his adorable inability to look her in the eye. “So I’m not the only one learning things about myself today, fantastic! And I must say,” she said, her eyes going back to his chest, her voice deeper and full of honey now as her head lowered, “Turnabout is fair play.” Just after the last word, she opened her mouth and swirled her tongue around the entirety of his left areola, then drew her tongue back so that it flicked along the sides and top of his nipple. Strike was suddenly on clouds, groaning softly, waves of warm pleasure coursing through his whole body, running most furiously from his chest to his crotch and back. His heartbeat pulsed in his skull.

She alternated licking and sucking, alternated using the rougher upper side of her tongue with the wetter, smoother underside (Strike somehow found room in his head to make a mental note to use that one later when their positions were reversed), moved to his other nipple, began idly, delicately playing with the one her mouth had left behind using her fingers, eventually switched her mouth and fingers’ places a couple of times over at intervals, mimicking some of his technique. Stroking, fondling, rolling, licking, sucking, a hint of teeth, purposefully grazing, almost nibbling his delicate skin but no more. Strike was floating on a haze of lust, borne away by her fingers, her mouth, her tongue.

She sat up two minutes later. “Now! What have we here?” She turned her attention to the only piece of clothing either of them were wearing now, pleasantly aware of the state she had put him in.

She unwrapped him like it was her turn to grab a box from under the Christmas tree, eager to see the contents inside, sliding his pants down and removing them before looking properly at the gift in question.

“Oh! Oh my.” The bulge had been impressive, and fully unfurled, standing at attention, his cock was not at all at odds with the rest of him in terms of scale. He was bigger, longer, bulkier than most.

His ego was pleased that he was likely bigger than Matthew. Robin, who knew exactly how much bigger than Matthew he was, simply marveled, and briefly wondered if her body was prepared. At least Strike had prepared the most relevant part of her body as much as was humanly possible.

She lowered her head to his groin then, gently peeled back his foreskin (Matthew had been circumcised, so she took extra care in her unfamiliarity) and swirled her tongue once again, taking him up higher than ever, literally and figuratively. She descended further, taking the whole of the head into her mouth now, tongue working around it, her head bobbing gently, now licking the thread of skin that ran along the underside of his shaft all the way up to where it joined the head. Strike felt like the back of his head might leave an impression in the bed, he had thrown it back and pushed it into the mattress so hard and so often in the last few minutes, writhing in the throes of his lust.

“Robin,” he croaked, “that’s amazing, but I have to warn you, if you don’t stop soon, I’m going to burst.”

“Thassokay,” she said without removing her mouth from around him, and began sliding up and down as much of the shaft as she could feasibly take. New pulses of raw, hedonistic joy were careering into his brain, threatening to make him explode into her mouth.

Despite this, he put a hand on one of her shoulders, stilling her. “It’s so much more than okay, but I…this first time, I want to come inside you. Is that okay?”

She was touched, and an anticipatory thrill coiled in her groin, heat pulsing through her belly. She pulled off of him with an audible pop. “Oh yes. Oh yes, that is definitely okay.”

“Bollocks!” he said suddenly, surprising her. “I don’t have a condom, afraid I wasn’t that optimistic about this trip.”

“It’s all right, Cormoran.” Her voice was low and reassuring. “I’m on the pill. I started two weeks ago. I’ve been on it before and it’s been reliable and doesn’t have any side effects for me.” The spectre of other women entered her brain, temporarily dousing her excitement, and for her own safety, she unfortunately had to bring them up. “As long as you’ve been using a condom consistently up to now, we’re good.”

Relief and renewed lust flooded Strike in equal measure--if she had been Charlotte, he’d have presumed it was a trap to get her pregnant and him caught, but his trust of Robin had long since been implicit. “I have been, don’t worry.” He felt a similar regret to hers at having to mention anyone else just now, but she deserved complete reassurance. “I was tested for STD’s during my annual a few months back, and when I was with Charlotte, I kept the condoms wrapped and on me after I bought them, because I didn’t put it past her to...” Then he thought about what she’d said and sat up. “Hang on, you started the pill two weeks ago? As in, after I split up with Charlotte?”

She sat up as well. “Well, a couple of days after that to sync up with my cycle. But yes.” She did not blush; she had absolutely no fear that Strike might be squeamish about something as natural as her period, nor was she ashamed of having taken precautions for this eventuality. “You touched my hand that night, Cormoran. That’s the equivalent of a passionate kiss from any other man. I thought...I hoped...this might happen soon.”

“Huh. I guess you were more optimistic than me.”

“I guess. Didn’t stop me from not shaving my legs.” She smiled. “Now…you on your back or me on mine? I can assure you I am equally excited about both prospects, which is to say very, very excited.” Her pulse quickened, here they finally were.

“Er, I think I can assure you in turn that we can try both this evening if you’re up for it. I have always been ready to go again given a few minutes to rest between, and I’ve never been so turned on as this in my life.” He was openly gazing at her body now, his eyes sliding over her thighs, her hips, her center, her breasts. He ran a hand from one cheek of her bottom, along her hip and waist, gently cupped a pleasantly pendulous breast, lightly stroked the hair above and around her opening.

Again, she was touched, and this time utterly triumphant at his words, his touch, the look in his eyes.

“Let’s start with me on top,” she said. “I’m honestly just a little worried about taking all of you into me.” She did blush at that. “I can control things a bit more easily from there, and won’t be so worried about you tearing or crushing me in your enthusiasm.” Now she was grinning and he grinned back.

“You on top it is.” But he did not lie down. Instead, he kissed her gently again, his lips fastened to her mouth, feeling the incredible softness of her full lower lip. Momentarily, she parted her lips and he performed a gentle exploration of her mouth. Then he reached for the back of her head and pushed her mouth against his, lightly bruising both of them, a price worth paying for the moans he was eliciting from her, that were shooting straight from her mouth into his. He ran the tips of his fingers over her spine, across her shoulders, up to her neck, down her arms, back to the top of her arse. Back and forth, up and down, keeping her on her toes, making the movements pleasantly unpredictable as before. Then he brought his hands forward, stroking her cheeks and neck, then gently lifted a breast in each hand, feeling their ripe weight before thumbing her sensitive flesh, his calloused fingers snagging deliciously around the outside of her areolae, and spiraling inward.

She was panting. “Fuck me, Cormoran. PLEASE just fuck me.”

He laid down, looked up at her expectantly, and found he was almost moved to tears as he took in her beauty and strength. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long, Robin.”

“I only hope it lives up to the anticipation. I want you so much.” She straddled him now, not letting him inside yet, bucking slowly, letting his length rub along her crevice and her clit. Her eyelids fluttered, her breathing quickened, she began to flush again. He was trembling at the feel of her, her wet outside promising a smooth glide inside.

“Here we go,” she said, and finally lowered herself onto him.

She had not realized how very, very wet she was. She had never been so wet before, and therefore misjudged how quickly he would slide up into her. She was full to bursting before she realized what was happening, and keened softly at the ache of this wonderful man filling the spaces inside her, cunt and heart alike.

For him, entering her was like plunging into a pool of the most deliciously slick oil imaginable, bathed on all sides in warm, supple wetness.

“Oh my God,” he breathed.

“Oh my God,” she agreed, and slid slowly up and down on him, guiding her hips away from the base of his length, then toward it again.

Strike made a sibilant, hissing noise of pure enjoyment. “Jesus Christ, Robin. Fuck!”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, Cormoran, yes.” Each “yes” was punctuated by the roll of her hips: retreat and advance, retreat and advance.

She had established the pace, and now he moved underneath her, following her lead, lengthening the retreat and the advance in turn, almost coming out of her on the retreat, practically wombing her on the advance.

“Oh God, Cormoran, don’t stop.”

He did not. Spurred on, he quickened the pace for a stretch, then began thrusting mightily up into her, taking full control, slamming into her g-spot (which she had not known she had until tonight, something of a running theme in her sexual self-knowledge this evening) as he gripped her waist, driving her so far into the stratosphere of sexual frenzy that soon she was only able to take his thrusts, not mirror them, so that she was like a marionette on his string (as it were), her head lolling back, her eyes rolling, guttural noises emanating involuntarily from her throat, her breasts slapping audibly against her rib cage with each thrust and bounce, her cunt aflame with desire, radiating heat and pleasure, every inch of her skin suffused with blood.

“Cormoran, Cormoran, Cormoran, oh GOD, Cormoran!”

“Robin…”

She rejoined their pistoning, no longer a passive partner. He was on the verge of orgasm, but held himself in check with an almighty effort. Still maintaining the rhythm, drive, and depth of his onslaught, he adjusted her slightly for leverage and pliability, then simultaneously gripped her arse with one hand, bent himself up to latch onto one of her nipples, and gently stroked the thumb of his other hand along her clit.

Attacked on four sides, Robin surrendered. The involuntary pulsing and clenching that he had triggered pulled him down with her, both sets of hips such a blur that it was hard to say where she ended and he began.

“OH GOD, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, I DIDN’T KNOW I COULD FEEL LIKE THIS, OH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU, OH GOD, CORMORAN!”

“ROBIN! FUUUUUUUUUCK!”

They both collapsed, breath ragged. She lay with her head next to his, arms around his neck, gently weeping again. He wrapped both arms around her and held her close to him and they stayed that way for some time.

For half a minute, they attended to the brief needs of coming apart, cleaning up, drying off without leaving the bed, using a handy box of tissues beneath the still lit bedside lamp. Then she huddled against him again.

As she came back to herself, Robin realized that the sex had made her emotions so raw and close that she needed to say something. She considered it might ruin the mood, but she pressed on anyway and said, “I n-need you to know something and I hope you w-won’t freak out when I say it.”

He gazed at her with reverence.

She was wiping away tears again, though she knew he was not afraid for her this time. “I want to help you. You need to let me help you. Cormoran, you are incredibly strong and independent and self-sufficient and you take a lot of trouble to appear as though you don’t need anything, but I know you, maybe almost as well as anyone ever has, and you need help. Obviously, we help each other all the time at the office, and I love that, I love being able to take care of you and take care of things for you professionally, but that’s not really what I mean. Your mother died, your father is estranged, your only close relative doesn’t understand you. You have half a leg blown off and still push yourself so hard that you are regularly invalided out for a week or more. You need to let me help you as much as I want to, you need to listen when I tell you to slow down, you need to talk to me when I ask you uncomfortable questions. If we’re going to do this, you need to let me in. I feel so incredibly lucky to be your partner at work. I hope you’ll let me really be your partner in life. I also need you to remember I got out of a decade-long relationship not very long ago, and though I think we might be built for forever, and I hope that thought doesn’t scare you either, I’m also a little gun shy about the idea of a long-term relationship, so you’re going to have to give me some time to deal with all that.” She stopped speaking for long enough that he decided to respond.

“Okay.” She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.

“Okay? Okay what, which?”

“Everything. You have a point about my relative isolation. I’ll listen to you, I’ll let you in, I’ll let you help me, and I’ll give you the time you need.”

“So all a girl needs to do is screw you and you’re at her beck and call?” He knew she was joking, but he found himself responding somewhat seriously.

“You might say that was true for Charlotte. I think you may remember it was not the case with Elin or Lorelei. I guess I only obey orders when I’m in love with the girl who’s screwing me.” The words were out before he had considered them, a product of sex-fueled, unguarded openness. He had a feeling like he should be afraid that he’d said them, like he should want to take them back. But he was not afraid, and he didn’t want to take them back. Perhaps he would have chosen to make his initial declaration less lightly or flippantly, with more solemnity. Perhaps he would not have chosen to make this declaration immediately after she warned him that she was fearful after a years-long commitment, but the words were said now, and he was not sorry.

Robin’s mouth fell open. “What?” She felt unmoored, like everything she thought she knew about Strike contradicted the evidence of her eyes and ears. “Did I really hear you say what I think you said?”

“You did. It should have come out better than that. Let me try again.” He actually cleared his throat. “I love you, Robin. I’ve loved you for years now. When we hugged that night on the stairs, I thought my heart would tear in half. I wanted to ask you to leave and come with me. I almost did. It felt like I had held you before, a long time ago, almost like we were lovers in another life and I recognized you when you put your arms around me. I have rather famously endured hardships many times, and I’ve never told anyone this, but I have taken great pride in my own inner reserves of strength and rectitude, in my willingness to never complain, but nothing has ever been as hard as watching you with Matthew was, except for my mother dying. I would do anything for you. I am not afraid to tell you any of this because I know your heart is so generous and true. You are gorgeous beyond compare. Your hair is like gold fire, your breasts are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. You’re the most intelligent, vivacious, open-hearted, brave, funny, sensitive, caring person I’ve ever met. I cannot believe that you are so perfect as both my business partner and my lover. I don’t know if we will work as a couple in the day to day, but I think we will, and I am thrilled to finally be able to find out if we can. I love you. You can tell me anything. You can ask me anything. As long as we’re honest with each other from now on, there’s nothing to fear. I love you, Robin.”

Robin’s mind reeled even as her eyes sparkled with tears. She had gone from fearing he might run from her declaration to finding out that he was as committed to her as possible. She struggled to make room for this, to adjust her understanding of the past and potential future to this knowledge, but it was too big. It was as though her brain was a pinball machine on tilt.

Strike continued: “While you’re processing that, one other thing: you need help too. You take on everything too much. Your open-heartedness and bravery are commendable but led to you getting assaulted and nearly killed by a murderer twice in about a year. You stayed in a poisonous relationship years after its shelf life had expired seemingly because it would have been painful for your undeserving, thoughtless partner to get what he deserved. You need to watch your back, tighten up your defense, and make damned sure I’m the last man you fall in love with, and I’m not an overly sensitive prick like your ex-husband: you need to let me know when I’m not doing right by you, not just let me be an arsehole. At least until I die 20 years before you do. Being a portly male who drinks and smokes heavily and is ten years older has its disadvantages.”

“Stop, don’t joke about that.” He didn’t press further. There was a long silence. Finally Robin spoke again.

“I wanted to leave with you too. At the wedding. I’m quite sure I would have, if you’d asked me. I suppose we can be glad that we both did our honor-bound duty, and kept a stiff upper lip, and all that other British whatnot, but I can’t help but feel we’d have saved almost two years of looking past each other if it had just happened then.”

“Please,” said Strike. “It’s like you’ve met neither of us. You and I would both have been consumed with guilt, and split up inside of three months. At least this way, we have a chance.”

“You’re probably right. I don’t know, though. I’ve been told my hair and breasts are very fetching. Are you sure they wouldn’t have overcome your need to stand on the moral high ground? Your cock would have given me second thoughts, I can tell you that.”

He laughed, and that wonderful rumbling laugh of his made her affection surge again.

“I’m sorry you had to watch me with Matthew. The day you split with Charlotte, I compared my conduct watching you be with someone I hated to yours watching me be with someone you hated. I came up short, of course. But you always were so stern and self-denying. I hardly had a chance in a contest like that. I admire it in you, even as I see how it hurts you sometimes. I’ll do what you asked. I’ll be careful, I’ll tell you things when you need telling.”

She paused briefly. “I love you too, Cormoran. Everything I said before about being wary still applies, but I guess there’s no point in not telling you. Not when you’ve stated your affection so eloquently. Not when we’ve been friends as long as this. You are intelligent and kind and strong and surprisingly soft-hearted, and I just want to take all of your pain and swallow it and make it go away. Since I can’t do that, I hope you’ll let me love you properly and help you, like I’ve said I want to.”

His eyes shimmered, and finally a tear fell from each eye. “Thank you, Robin. Oh, thank you.”

They lay in silence a little longer. Then he said, “I know I said I could go again and I could if you really want, but I find I’m drained and I want to sleep. I’ll wake you up in the best of ways, but could you please just hold me now since you’re so ready to be my caretaker? I’m so tired. I’m so happy.”

“Nothing in the world could please me more, Cormoran.” He reached for the bedside lamp, and flicked it off. She nestled his head to her chest, and stroked his hair. He was asleep in three minutes, his head on the softest pillow in creation. She readjusted once to make room for him while maintaining her own comfort, and her red-gold hair spilled across the bed one last time. She lay there, thinking for several more minutes before she drifted off herself.

The world was a vicious, cruel place and there were innumerable challenges and pitfalls before them. They had enemies, known and unknown, and their partnership reaching another level would not make their enemies less bold.

But at that moment, it was just Robin and Strike, breathing softly. And though the world was cruel and vicious, they were strong and kind, and this joining could only make them stronger, more ready for anything the world might throw at them. The Yorkshire bird and the Cornish giant slept on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
